


Random Fanfiction Bits

by orphan_account



Category: BioShock, Hannibal (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:35:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. In my mind, these scenes play out, and they have no plot or meaning, but I figured it is best to just get it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teen Supernatural

**Author's Note:**

> Dean Winchester's POV

We slept after that case. Sammy and I were tucked up in the back of the Impala with nothing but the dull buzz of road beneath tire and the soft melodic sounds of an AC/DC guitar solo to lull us to sleep. We held each other close because we had an agreement that it was fine for brothers to touch as much as we did. And, of course, there was the much more tacit agreement. We were all we had.

John, when reminded of us, would claim to love us, would claim to care, but his priority wasn't us. We were kept alive, but we were left no room for luxury. We slept in the back of a car, the leather seats sweated stuck to our backs or chilling us to the bone. When we weren't spending nights in the Impala, we slept on a shared pad of springs and a small layer of cushion that hardly stopped us from being stabbed by the metal coils in the night. Our showers were cold, enough to wet every part of our body, and "Get out. You're hoggin' all the water."

The thing I regret is Sammy. He was a thin boy. As we slept in the back of the Impala that night among nights, I felt his ribs gently prodding me. The words would never fall from my lips if you were to ask, but I cried myself to sleep that night.


	2. OC

It's winter in Beecher Stone. It's darker, and colder with little hope for it to change. It's been winter for... 2 years tomorrow. People don't have hope anymore. They can't.

There is a boy, small and frail, shivering on the iced-over asphalt of the paved pathway. The black rock is too slippery to drive over without hydroplaning, so he doesn't fear for being run over. Not that he would _fear_ being run over in the position that he's in, but all the same. He has about a month left if things were to continue. He's homeless. Hopeless. If you ask anyone else, better off dead.


	3. Bioshock

“So, boyo. How do you like the taste of ADAM now?” Jack still heard the echo of the Little Sister’s screaming and begging in his head, guilt heavy in his chest. At Jack’s silence, Atlas began to worry. “Boyo?” he lilted to get Jack’s attention. “Jack?” 

“I-I’m here,” Jack called back over the radio.

Atlas sighed with relief, the microphone crackling with his breath. “Don’t do that to me again, ya hear? I don’t have eyes on you here, ‘cause _someone_ keeps killing the camera,” he growled. “Now. Would you kindly head back to Neptune’s Bounty? I’ll help get you through Emergency Access.”

Jack did as he was told, as always, and walked back through the Medical Pavilion. He glanced around at the mutilated posters and, sometimes, bodies, which were all signed with a kiss courtesy of Steinman. Jack walked up the spiraling staircase and into the bathysphere. It was still playing the quiet elevator music from the time of the party, the one part of Rapture that was untouched by all this insanity. He tuned into it, and rocked back and forth slowly to the beat.

There was a soft _ding_ as the bathysphere came to a stop. The door swung open and Jack was instantaneously bombarded with attacks from a splicer. She was still in her New Year’s masquerade attire, but it was bloody and ragged. She swung a pipe at him and hit him square in the temple, making his head pulse and vibrate, and sending a ringing warning of pain throughout his mind. He brought up enough power to strike her with Electro Bolt. She stood where she was, body livened with electricity. He pulled his wrench from his belt loop and smacked her in the neck. He felt a wave of relief as the bone cracked, and she dropped to the ground.

“You alright there?” Atlas called. Blood was dripping from Jack’s head, but it could’ve been worse.

“I’m alright,” he said, more a breath than actual words. He placed a bandage over his forehead and ignored that the blood that was seeping through, painting the cloth a dark red. He continued on his path through Neptune’s Bounty with the cadence of Atlas’ voice to sooth him from the too-apt fear that accompanied this hellish city. He slowly approached Emergency Access and pulled the lever, bracing for an assault. Once assuring himself there was none, he proceeded through the door. 

Jack hated seeing such a horrific sight. The brilliant, twinkling lights that were sparking with small jolts of electricity, and the helpless feeling he got from knowing that no one other than him would see them in their shining colors again. Well, no one would see them and care. His heart fell into his stomach. There were bodies strung up on the walls, evidence of someone's sadistic outburst. One in particular caught his attention. It was a dead Little Sister like the one he’d killed, but with, as he’d counted, about ten bullets in her that he could see. Her glowing yellow eyes had faded to a somber eggshell, the hint of her relatively-human pupils shining through. “The little bitch got what was coming to her,” Atlas said. Then, his voice softened. “Mourn her in your own time. Maybe, I don’t know, when your life isn’t in danger?”

 _Will my life ever not be in danger?_ he thought, but kept silent. It wasn’t wise to anger Atlas. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said instead. He continued around the small pillar where she was tied up and walked down a flight of stairs. Wrapped around the grab-bar was a long strand of Christmas lights, glowing a dying blue. When Jack reached the bottom of the spiraling staircase, the lights weren’t plugged in. It was just a reflection of the watery ambience of the large-windowed room. _Even the lights here,_ Jack complained tacitly, _are a lie._ The blood from Jack’s head streamed down onto his face and gathered underneath his eyes, mimicking tears. He ignored it and kept on. 

There was a splicer in front of him when he lifted his guilty gaze from the ground. She wasn’t being aggressive, or frightened, or _loud_ like all of the others. She was seemingly unaware of Jack. She was humming a sweet song, sounding similar to a lullaby, and swaying back and forth with a baby carriage. “Be quiet here, and you may be able to sneak around her,” Atlas mumbled over the radio. Atlas knew of Jack’s distaste for killing. He also knew that, if it was necessary, he would. Sure, if Jack was quiet, and invisible, he’d be able to get around her, but she was also directly in his way and any path he took would place him right in the center of her line of sight. “I’m sorry, boyo, but make it quick. I can’t hold these damned robots off for long.” 

Jack nodded, hoping that Atlas could see him. He took a deep breath to stable himself and he snuck up behind her. His wrench was still in his belt loop, and he easily could have gotten it, but he didn’t. He wrapped his hands around the woman’s neck and broke it swiftly. He also hoped there was no pain.

 

 


	4. Hannibal

Will hated psychiatry. He loathed letting people in his head. He always had. And Hannibal made it so much worse.

* * *

 

“Good evening, Will.” They were sitting across from each other in the same chairs they sat in every session. Will shifted, the leather creaking.

“Good evening, Dr. Lecter,” Will echoed.

“How are you?” Hannibal asked. It seemed as though he genuinely cared, but Will still doubted it.

“I'm tired,” he answered honestly. There were light purple bags under his eyes from lack of sleep and the drain was slowly eating away at his mind. Jack was even starting to get angry.

“How have you been sleeping, Will?” Hannibal leaned back in his chair and put his ankle on his knee.

 

 


	5. Destiel

“So you're,” Dean paused, “human now?”

 

Castiel nodded. “Yeah. Metatron thought he was giving me a 'second chance,'” he said, bringing his fingers up to make air quotes.

 

“How do you feel?” Dean asked, bringing the beer bottle up to his lips and drinking.

 

Castiel watched Dean wrap his lips around the neck of the bottle and closed his eyes with guilt. “Happy. Scared, but happier than I've been in a long time.” Dean watched Castiel' eyes, but ignored it. He nodded, understanding. “I like being human. I feel a lot more now,” Castiel continued. He drank from his bottle as well. He'd had alcohol before but it had never made him feel like it does now. It makes him feel warm and dizzy and relaxed.

 

Dean waited a bit before speaking. “Are you still a virgin?” he asked.

 

Castiel blushed and ducked his head. “Yes,” he said. “I mean, I got close to having sex with a woman, but then, she tried to kill me so it didn't end well.”

 

Dean laughed, “Been there.” Castiel laughed with him. His head was buzzing. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Dean's. “Castiel. What the hell are you doing?”

 

Castiel pulled away and blinked himself back to reality. “I'm sorry. I-I didn't...” he slurred.

 

Dean laughed. “It's fine. I mean, I didn't expect it, and I'm not... but it's fine.”

 

Castiel nodded. “I know you're not gay. I shouldn't have done it. I don't know why I did it.”

 

Dean pinned Castiel against the couch, and leaned in close. Close enough to kiss. They didn't. “I said it's fine.”

 

 

“Please don't do this if we're not going to....” Castiel whined, dizzily drunk. Dean leaned down further and kissed him. “But you don't want...” he mumbled against Dean's lips. Castiel gave in and kissed back slowly.


End file.
